


Silent Corridors and Empty Verses

by unholyseraphs (oncharredwings)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncharredwings/pseuds/unholyseraphs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a struggling writer with an obsession with Langston Hughes' "Suicide's Note" living in Canada, enjoying his quiet and simple life; he lives in an old house that he finds to be his friend as well as his prison cell. Dean Winchester is Castiel's lover who has come to live with him after being together for a short amount of time. Dean just wants Castiel to leave the house, to "go out"; Castiel has no such desires. The quiet of the house brings him solace and peace, until the silence begins to weigh on his mind and the silence becomes eerie and wrong. Their relationship, and Castiel's sanity, is put to the test as the house seems to gain a life of its own. Castiel could have never prepared himself for what the walls had to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Askance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askance/gifts).



> Inspired by [Askance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Askance/pseuds/Askance)'s work "the inexhaustible silence of houses" --> [link](http://archiveofourown.org/works/560268/chapters/1000755), as well as the following playlist: 
> 
> Mount Eerie - Ancient Times  
> A Silver Mount Zion - Sit in the Middle of Three Galloping Dogs  
> Godspeed You Black Emperor - Terrible Canyons of Static  
> A Silver Mount Zion - 13 Angels Standing Guard 'Round the Side of Your Bed  
> Florence + the Machine - Heavy In Your Arms

He wasn’t sure exactly when the move happened, or how the idea sprouted into being, but Dean had agreed to move in with him over the summer. They had been standing together outside of Castiel’s gray house, nestled in the thickness of the trees. No one came to bother Castiel, nor did he have anyone coming to harass him for how he lived his life. Dean had never been fond of his house; it was too old, too big, and too unsettling for Dean’s tastes. But that did not stop Dean from moving out of his own apartment when the lease ended and into Castiel’s lonely house.

 

“We could spruce it up a little,” Dean suggested as they stood outside below the porch, Dean’s arm wrapped around Castiel’s thin waist. “It could use a paint job for sure….and we could take down the old wallpaper-”

 

“I like the wallpaper,” Castiel insisted. “It’s quiet and I like that quiet that it brings me.”

 

Dean sighed, exasperated. “I _guess_ can keep the old, dingy wallpaper if it makes you so damn happy.”

 

Castiel glanced over at Dean in time to see him wink playfully. He smiled. Dean was always teasing him about his tastes in furnishings, decor, and books. Castiel liked the old and odd; he figured it came from being a writer. “I like the house the way it is Dean, I don’t want to change it.”

 

This time, when Dean sighed, he seemed to mean it. “You sure? It’s just….creepy.”

 

He shrugged. “I like it the way it is.” Sometimes he had to repeat himself over and over before Dean believed him and the truth would sink in. “You agreed to move here, you don’t need to start making changes to the house, it’s fine the way it is.”

 

“Fine, fine.” Dean finally relented, his arm falling away from his waist. There were boxes that needed bringing inside, so they both turned in silence to the Impala. Dean did not have much to speak of, so unpacking Castiel knew, would not take long. They took Dean’s belongings into the house. The steps creaked with their weight as he helped Dean carry the boxes up to the second story of the house, towards the bedroom.

 

He smiled at the bed that would now house the two of them, rather than just Castiel on his own. Years had passed since he had had someone to warm his bed for an extended period of time. In fact, he could hardly remember when that had been last.

 

“You write a bestseller yet?” Dean half joked as they unpacked the boxes together.

 

“Not yet,” Castiel replied, which was always his reply to this question. Dean asked him all of the time if he had become famous yet. If Castiel became famous, Dean would remark, then they would have to skip town and find an island to live on so they weren’t bothered by the fans.

 

He had always laughed at Dean’s sense of humor, even if sometimes Dean’s constant asking about his success was another reminder that he was not successful at all.

 

There were no bestsellers.  
No articles.  
Nothing.

 

He wrote furiously but his labor hardly ever came to fruition. Being a writer was the hardest job Castiel could imagine.

 

“You will soon,” Dean replied as he began to hang up his clothes in the empty side of Castiel’s closet. The flannel and denim stood out from Castiel’s argyle and wool. Certainly, they would never mix up clothes on laundry day.

 

He nodded in a slight and silent agreement. He was sure he did have a bestseller cooking on his laptop now anyway. The story had been flowing from his mind to his fingers like a well practiced dance; it ebbed and flowed with the life of his characters, and Castiel was sure a publisher would see that and pick up the story immediately. Then he could finally show his family what a success their son, Castiel Novak, really could be; he would show them that he was not a subpar writer who was trying and failing to be the next Stephen King.

 

“We should go out to eat tonight,” Dean commented as he placed the last of his shirts in the closet, hanging neatly on the opposite side like flannel soldiers all in a row.

 

Castiel glanced up from breaking down a box to be stored in the attic. “I don’t know,” he muttered quietly. He had never been a fan of _going out_ , and all of the implications that going out came with.

 

“Aw, c’mon Cas, we should do something fun. Like normal couples and shit.” Dean’s eyes filled with hope and he almost felt guilty for shutting those hopes down.

 

“Maybe another time Dean,” he continued, completely and utterly insistent on remaining in the house. Castiel did not like socialization with people he did not know. The only reason he had even met Dean had been because his cable had quit working and Dean had shown up to restore the TV into working condition.

 

He was just glad they had hit it off on that very first meeting or Dean moving in may never had happened at all.

 

“Fine,” Dean muttered. His shoulders tightened in his annoyance and then his boots were stomping out of the room and back down the hallway.

 

Castiel listened to Dean’s footsteps go down the rickety staircase and then back outside. The rumble of the Impala soon followed.

 

Dean was gone.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey baby,” came Dean’s whisper in his ear later that night as he tried to sleep. Sleep had become harder for him to do over the years. “I’m sorry for snapping at you and taking off. I shouldn’t have been so immature about that.” 

 

Castiel slowly rolled over so he could look Dean in the eye. The room was dark, save for the glow of the alarm clock and the slight glow of the moonlight through the curtains on the window behind Dean’s head. Dean’s hair was ringed in a silver halo and Castiel had to blink several times so his eyes would adjust and bring Dean’s features into focus. 

 

“Did you hear me?” Dean continued, his voice still low and gentle. 

 

He nodded. 

 

Dean’s hands began to cascade down from his shoulder and chest to slip beneath the confines of his thin t-shirt. The melody that Dean’s fingers played across his hot skin made him ache for more. He and Dean had played this game before; the touching, the caressing. They had yet to seal the act completely, but Dean’s mouth was soon on his; Dean’s tongue searching inside his mouth, as if he were trying to draw Castiel’s voice and response out by force. 

 

He keened and arched his ribs up into Dean’s hands, which continued to play a pattern against his nipples and scratch a story into his stomach. His thighs fell apart as Dean began to ease over him, both of their desires for the other clear. Dean gently pushed Castiel’s shirt up to reveal the body he had been worshipping just a moment prior. There was a glint in the dark and Castiel sighed with contentedness. 

 

Dean was not a man who spoke many words but his hands wrote the poetry his tongue faltered over. With a lift of his hips, he felt Dean pull his pajama pants down his thighs, revealing his nakedness completely. In the dim light, he saw Dean’s smile flash like a beacon at the sight. The fingers that were writing cadences and psalms up and down his ribs, slid down to the dip of his hipbones and to the soft area of his pelvis. Dean mapped out his entire naked body with just his fingers before slowly adding his mouth and lips to the arsenal. 

 

Dean’s mouth was a mixture of soft and rough. His teeth scraped delicately along Castiel’s flesh, teasing and tasting the salty sweat that had begun to permeate to the surface in his arousal. As Dean traveled lower and lower along his body, Castiel shuddered and shifted with the movements, his eyes roaming the darkened bedroom. The moonlight gave him glimpses of what Dean’s ministrations were doing but eventually he shut his eyes and felt them instead. The wetness of Dean’s mouth, the callouses in Dean’s hands. They formed together as a perfect harmony and Castiel felt his entire body come undone in what felt like mere minutes. 

 

Dean kisses his inner thigh before slowly crawling back on top of him, the weight of his heavy cock resting between Castiel’s thighs. “Want you baby,” he whispered huskily. 

 

Castiel agreed. 

 

They spent the early hours of the morning, long before the sun would arrive to announce the day, tangled in each other’s limbs. The sheets were damp with sweat and their breaths came in deep and exaggerated gasps when they finished. Castiel opened his eyes to stare up at the plaster ceiling far above his head; there were cracks here and there he realized. Eventually, Dean’s chest rose and fell slowly, the signal that he had at last fallen asleep. Castiel trailed his fingers through the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck lightly before shutting his own eyes. 

 

Sleep eventually claimed him too. 

 

 

Dean constantly wanted to go out, to meet new people, make new friends. Castiel did not want any of those things, so when Dean went out, Castiel stayed in the house. The house that was as much of his friend as his prison. Today, Dean had stated that he was going into the hardware store so he could find some parts to fix the leaky sink in the master bathroom. Castiel had had no qualms about this adventure. Only that he had writing to do and did not want to go out and disturb his creative process. 

 

Dean had been annoyed upon leaving, but Castiel knew he would return with an apology, a kiss not too far behind the admission to his wrongs. 

 

He ran his fingers along the keys to his laptop, staring at the screen that had become the bane of his existence for years now. Writing had always been a way for him to explain his thoughts and emotions; writing had always been an outlet. But as he sat down to continue the story as he had been planning to do since his morning shower, Castiel realized he had no idea how to continue the story. There was block between him and the finish line, and at the moment, it was as large and tall as a mountain. 

 

He groaned in dismay; this always happened to him when he reached the crux of the story. Something always came along to stop him from succeeding. Castiel angrily shoved the laptop away from him, snapping its lid shut. The house creaked and moaned as if in protest. He glared up at the ceiling with a roll of his eyes. When he went to stand, his body protested but Castiel fought through the soreness that Dean had given him from the night previous, awkwardly stumbling out of his study to the main hallway. Maybe if he had something to eat first, his mind would finally concentrate. 

 

The wooden floors were cold this morning. A reminder for him that winter was coming and the trees’ colors were at the end of their cycle. The reds and oranges were no longer vibrant and beautiful; instead they were dull and ugly against the grayness of the overcast sky today he noted, as he looked out into the woods beyond the house from the kitchen window. The fridge was fully stocked at the moment, since Dean ate much more than he ever had. Choosing lunch had suddenly become a lot harder than usual. 

 

He stared at the contents of the refrigerator for an excessively long time before a sound above his head made Castiel’s heart almost leap out of his chest. Shutting the fridge, he slowly made his way down the hallway and up the stairs to where the noise had come from. The door to the guest room, which had become more of a place for storage since he had never had guests, was standing open. Castiel frowned; he had not left the door open. 

 

Peering into the room, Castiel stepped into the open doorway beyond the threshold. Nothing seemed amiss and the sound did not repeat itself. Castiel shook his head and left the room, still feeling unnerved. Something must have fallen. A pile of junk had toppled over or the house had simply creaked, as it was wont to do. 

 

There was no one in the house. 

 

Maybe Dean had opened the door to allow for more light to enter the dark hallway upstairs. That was a relatively reasonable assumption. Satisfied with his own conclusion, Castiel returned to his study where his computer still sat closed and ready for his use. He ignored the pangs in his stomach and sat down to open the laptop again. The words were stuck still between his brain and his fingertips. His creative spinal cord had been cut sometime in the night and Castiel was not sure when or why it had happened. The flickering screen with the words he had already written mocked him now. 

 

Castiel glared and tried to force the words to flow like they had been before, but now they did not come with liquid ease. The words were jagged remnants of the creativity he had had only a few days before. Shadows of their greater cousins already written in the document. Once again, he shut the laptop and glared up at the ceiling. He wanted to blame Dean’s excursion on his body the night previous but that would be completely absurd. The sex they had had was not the cause of his creative block. 

 

Once again, the house groaned in protest. 

 

The rumble of the Impala was what drew him out of his thoughts, and the pain in his backside and lower back was the wakeup call to how long he had been sitting still in the house’s silence. Standing and stretching as quickly as he dared, Castiel walked out of his office slowly, his eyes on the front door. Dean soon made an appearance, shutting and locking the deadbolt behind as he scraped some mud off of his boots on the hallway runner. 

 

“Hello Dean,” he greeted from his doorway. 

 

“Hey,” Dean replied shortly. 

 

Castiel watched Dean set a bag of parts down on the ground before sliding out of his leather jacket to hang up next to Castiel’s trenchcoat. The bag rustled when Dean picked it up again, after he had removed his boots, ready to go on up the stairs. He opened his mouth to say something, to draw Dean back to him but his lover was already going up the stairs, and the bathroom fan kicked on shortly afterwards, the sound resonating through the house. It was jarring to go from silence to the industrial noises of the bathroom, and Castiel flinched at the sudden change. 

 

He knew that he should apologize to Dean for being so fickle about doing anything other than sitting in the house all day, everyday. But Castiel liked his private life, with its simple nuances; he did not need to go out and meet new people. He had the house and he had his Dean. That was all he needed really. Surely Dean knew what he was getting into when agreeing to date him; surely he knew that Castiel was a private man who would rather sit and read a book than discuss football with a group of strangers. 

 

The stairs creaked beneath his feet as he ascended them, a familiar and pleasant sound to his ears. Unlike the dissonance coming from the bathroom upstairs. “Dean?” he called the moment he passed the threshold of their bedroom. The bed sat half unmade and half made; Dean had a habit of making his side of the bed and since Castiel always roused from lack of sleep so late in the day, he always left his side a mess. Always an imprint of the night previous. 

 

“Yeah?” Dean replied, his head underneath the sink as he tried to repair the leak. 

 

For a moment, Castiel remained silent; the house sometimes stole the words from his throat and left him just as quiet as it stood. He stared at Dean’s feet, covered in white socks that were dirty along the bottoms. There was a hole in the heel of one of them. 

 

“Cas?” 

 

“I’m sorry.” He muttered the apology in shame. 

 

“For what?” Dean slid out from under the sink, slowly moving to sit up. Dean stared up at him from his seat on the floor, confusion knitting his brows together. 

 

“For keeping you here,” he whispered. “I feel like I’m imprisoning you and I never meant for that to happen.” 

 

Dean stared up at him some more and slowly his classic easy smile filled his handsome face. “You’re not imprisoning me here baby. I’m sorry I’m always hounding you about going out, I know you’re that cute little introvert. I just think you’d loosen up a little if you went out for a bit. Even if it was just to get out of this damned house. If anyone is a prisoner here Cas, it’s you. Not me.” 

 

“I’m not a prisoner,” he protested immediately. Castiel knew that the house was more of his prison guard than anything else, but he liked the house. It was warm, cozy, and he knew all of its secrets. He felt no fear here. 

 

Dean gave him a look that clearly illustrated Castiel’s unspoken thoughts. “Uh huh,” he replied indignantly. “Sure. I’m gonna fix this sink now, alright?” 

 

“Okay.” Castiel watched as Dean lowered himself back under the sink and it was then that he realized that the sound of the fan had become white noise during their conversation. As soon as Dean’s voice died in his throat, the dissonance returned. Castiel backed up out of the bathroom and turned his eyes on the bed where his indentation was left from where he had slept. Dean’s side was neatly made, and Castiel realized there was dissonance there too. 

 

He hoped that there was no bad omen there.


	3. Chapter 3

_The cool, calm face of the river asked me for a kiss._

 

Castiel ran his fingers over the words written by Langston Hughes as he reread them over and over. The poem had become an obsession of his over the past ten years and even he was not sure of the why. Dean thought the poem was morbid and he told Castiel such every time he brought it up or recited it at random.

 

He found a peace in the poem and at night when he couldn’t sleep, sometimes he would whisper it to himself. Dean was not a fan.

 

“It’s just fucking creepy Cas, it’s about some guy’s suicide and you’re idolizing it like it’s the Holy Scripture!” Dean snapped at him one morning after Castiel had muttered it to himself for the fifth time that morning.

 

He had been feeling a lot of anxiety from nightmares that had plagued his sleep the night before. The poem grounded him in reality. “It calms me Dean,” he said. This conversation happened too often for his liking, and why Dean had not realized the importance of the poem was still beyond Castiel’s grasp.

 

“I get that, but do you gotta mutter it like a fucking mantra every few minutes?” Dean snapped as he continued to read over the paper he had picked up from the gas station.

 

“Why can’t you just let me say it Dean? It’s not hurting anyone,” he replied evenly. Castiel did not like fighting with Dean, but they had been fighting more and more lately. Over the simplest of things.

 

“Because it annoys me,” Dean finally admitted. “It annoys me to death that you keep muttering that poem. That’s why. Write it down or something. Stop saying it out loud all of the time. People are going to start thinking you’re crazy.”

 

Castiel flinched and lowered his eyes down to the notepad he had been collecting his thoughts on. The writer’s block was still as big as a mountain, and he had no tools to navigate the issue. So he had taken to writing his ideas down when they arrived in his brain, hoping to spark that same fluidity he had had before Dean had moved in. His spidery handwriting scrawled across the page and it was then that he realized he had been writing the poem down in the even blue lines. It was written there at least twenty times already.

 

Castiel tore the page from the notepad and crumpled it up so Dean wouldn’t see the reality of the situation. He didn’t remember writing the poem down at all, but sometimes he lost track of his own thoughts. “I’m sorry Dean,” he said after enough silence had passed that he realized an apology was really unnecessary now.

 

“It’s fine Cas,” Dean replied as he turned a page, flipping the paper around and folding it in half to continue reading.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, Cas.”

 

Dean sounded tired. Tired of the conversation, tired of him. They hadn’t been together long enough for Dean to be tired of him; not even a year had passed since they had first met. Castiel shook his head; he was being paranoid. Dean was not tired of him, Dean was tired from working. That was all.

 

The phone ringing drew them both out of their small and separate realities. Dean set the paper down and stood to answer it, his voice lighting up when he realized it was his brother on the other end.

 

“Yeah,” Dean said with a grin. “I’m sure he’d love to, hold on, lemme ask….Cas, baby?” Dean covered up the receiver with his hand.

 

Castiel knew the question before Dean even had a chance to utter it. “Yes, Dean?”

 

“Sam wants us to go out with him tonight. See a movie, go get a bite to eat. You know, fun stuff.” Dean sounded so desperate that it made Castiel flinch inwardly. “It’ll be fun, baby. We should go. Please?”

 

Castiel opened his mouth to answer Dean but the house creaked and groaned. The whole room seemed to move and Castiel wavered, his eyes suddenly feeling so heavy he wanted to fall out of his chair and meld into the floor. He could hear Dean’s voice, muffled in his ears, but the floor was rushing up to meet him. So was a wavering darkness. He just hoped the darkness won before the wooden floor did.

  
  
  


“Cas?  Cas! Cas-”

 

Dean was shaking his shoulder.

 

Castiel snapped his eyes open and looked around, his body felt exhausted and drained. He had not been sleeping well again.

 

“Hey,” Dean said, sounding relieved. “Jesus, you scared me. Baby, what’s going on with you? You got all pale and then you just slid out of your chair.”

 

“I fainted,” he whispered.

 

“I realize that-I just-...are you alright? Do you need to see a doctor?” Dean’s strong hands, that ones that could write poetry on his skin, helped him sit up slowly. “Cas?”

 

He still felt tired and exhausted. He should have stayed unconscious longer. “Was I out long?”

 

“What? No. No, you were out for maybe a few seconds.” Dean cupped the back of his head with one hand and his cheek in the other, clearly concerned. “Cas, talk to me.”

 

“I’m just tired Dean,” he muttered. Even his own voice sounded like it was dragging through sludge.

 

“You should go to bed. C’mon. I’ll call Sam back in a minute and tell him I can’t go out. Gotta take care of you, okay?” Dean stood up, his hands going to the underside of Castiel’s arms to help him upright.

 

The world spun in an unpleasant way when he finally made it to an upright position, but he was able to keep his eyes open as he and Dean staggered to the staircase. Castiel raised his eyes from watching his feet more or less drag across the wooden floorboards to the long expanse of the stairs. The darkness at the top made the ascent seem longer than usual, as if the house had a life of its own and had grown more steps between him and the bedroom. He blamed this delirious thought on his lack of sleep.

 

The bed was meeting him before he even realized he and Dean had moved from the bottom of the steps to the second floor. Dean pulled the blanket over his body and stared down at him in honest concern. At least, Dean didn’t appear as tired of him as he had perceived earlier. “I’m okay Dean,” he said. His voice still dragged low with an undertone of a deep tiredness. But at least he did not feel as if he were about to pass out again.

 

“I gotta call Sam but-”

 

“No...you go, Dean. You go have fun with Sam.” Castiel fought to keep his eyes open but he did not need a bitter Dean to wake up to. If Dean got to go out and have fun on his own, then maybe he would be in a better mood.

 

“You sure?” Dean asked slowly. Dean’s tone was full of question and uncertainty but Castiel nodded his assurance. “Thanks baby.” That smile that made his toes curl and his dick hard filled Dean’s face. “I’ll call you to check in on you okay?”

 

“I’ll be fine Dean.” Castiel appreciated Dean’s concern however, and when Dean bent down to press a long kiss to his lips, he opened his mouth with eager invitation. They kissed each other with that deep desire that made Castiel’s skin light on fire.

 

He loved Dean. He was sure of that.

 

“I’ll be back late probably. I’ll try to keep it reasonable though,” Dean finally said once their lips parted.

 

Castiel nodded. “Okay.”

 

“ _Sleep_ ,” Dean ordered. “Seriously, you need to rest. No wonder you’re muttering poetry about suicide, you’re exhausted.”

 

Castiel did not reply to this last bit, instead he watched Dean go, quietly closing the bedroom door behind him. Closing his eyes, Castiel listened to Dean’s fading footsteps and finally the sound of the Impala as he drove down the long dirt and gravel driveway. Afterward, there was no sound except the comforting and warm silence of the house. The air wrapped its arms around Castiel, cradling him as he drifted to sleep, his eyes growing heavier with each passing moment.

  
  


Something woke him up from a dead sleep and left him feeling startled. His heart was beating so fast that he had to sit up to catch a full breath. Castiel’s lungs burned and the darkness of the room took some adjusting, but eventually he could see again. The door to his bedroom was open.

 

Dean had shut the door before leaving.

 

He had not gotten up since the lack of sleep had finally claimed his conscience.

 

Castiel moved slowly and carefully, as he tried not to make any sound. The blankets felt hot and heavy; they were trapping him to the mattress. There was no sound emitting anywhere in the house; if Dean had been home, there would have been a noise somewhere. The sound of the Impala, the static of the TV that worked on some days, and others it did not. Dean was a live and real presence in the house.

 

But there was nothing.

 

Finally, Castiel shoved the suffocating blankets off of his body and began to get up, his eyes never wavering from the opened door. He would have to talk to Dean about getting a gun; supposedly Dean had a license for one, and now Castiel had the sudden desire to have one in the house. Just in case.

 

The clock was flashing, as if the power had gone off at some point while he had slept. The time read past one in the morning. He had no idea what time it was now but it was still dark outside, and Dean was not back as far as he could tell. Dean had told him that he would be late, but he had also said he would try to keep it reasonable. Whatever time it was, Castiel was most certain it was no longer reasonable.

 

The hallway’s darkness was even worse than the darkness in his bedroom and it swallowed him up whole the moment he left the safety of his bed. The house was so silent now that it made Castiel uneasy, rather than feel safe and cocooned. He almost called Dean’s name, just to cause a noise, but he held his tongue. Disturbing this eerie quiet seemed like a terrible idea.

 

Continuing down the hallway, Castiel felt blindly for the banister of the staircase and finally relaxed when he saw the dim light at the bottom of the steps; there was some light coming from the windows and he was able to make his way safely down the staircase. As usual, it creaked beneath his feet. The sound, the familiar sounds, banished away the eerie silence and once again the house’s quiet made Castiel feel safe and no longer estranged. Flipping on the hallway light, Castiel blinked a few times when the light burned his retinas and startled him.

 

Peering into his study, he almost walked away because nothing seemed amiss. Except there was something wrong about the room. At first, he could not place the wrongness; it was as if someone other than him had been in the office and touched his belongings; leaving things in not quite the right place. And on his laptop sat a book. Frowning, Castiel walked over and titled the book upwards to see the cover.

 

The Holy Bible.

 

A bible was sitting on his laptop.

 

He frowned again and ran his thumb along the pages, flipping through them easily. There were passages highlighted here and there but Castiel ignored them for now. His eyes were drawn to the inscription on the inside cover page.

 

_The calm, cool, face of the river asked me for a kiss._

 

He did not recognize the handwriting; it was not his spidery hand, nor was it Dean’s simple blocked letters. Allowing the bible to shut, Castiel left it on his laptop and returned to exploring the house. As far as he could tell, he was alone. All of the digital clocks in the house were flashing the same time. The one analog he had on the wall told him that it was well past three in the morning.

 

Dean was still not home.

 

Worry filled Castiel’s chest; had something happened to Dean? Had some accident occurred and the house was trying to tell him something? Was Dean lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding from wounds and succumbing to the elements? Was Dean with someone else? Was Dean having an affair? Castiel’s heart began to break at the notion, so he shoved that idea away and returned to his office to study the bible some more.

 

The passages highlighted did not seem very important and they were not linked by any common factor. He paused at some, reading them over.

 

Genesis 2:7

_Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature._

 

Hebrews 11:3

_By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible._

 

2 Timothy 2:26

_And they may come to their senses and escape from the snare of the devil, after being captured by him to do his will._

 

Castiel frowned and once again, allowed the bible to shut and rest on his laptop. There were more passages highlighted but he ignored them. This was not his bible and the verse written inside had not been written by him or Dean. Perhaps Dean had found the book and left it for him, after seeing the Hughes’ poem written inside. Dean had made a comment earlier about him uttering the poem like Holy Scripture; was Dean making fun of him now? 

 

He returned to the kitchen and saw that the hour was close to four in the morning. Dean should have been home by now, he was certain. Dean had not called either, and even though he had told Dean he would be fine, Dean still would have called. The eerie silence of the house filled him to his core again, and he wanted to flee the house, to run away and never return. The feeling passed after a moment, but the silence still continued to bother him rather than comfort.

 

The floor beneath his feet felt solid, which was better than earlier when it had swayed and bowed like the ocean, but now the walls felt suffocating. They stood tall around him, like sentries at their stations. Castiel felt trapped in his study as the walls seemed to be closing in on him, making the room smaller and smaller. A scream, deeply seeded in his being, was about to make its way out of his body when a flash of light made his heart jump into his throat. The scream died away and Castiel peered through the curtains to the driveway.

 

The Impala was rumbling up the driveway.

 

The noise made the eerie quiet dissipate and a calm spread over Castiel’s entire body. Dean was home. Dean was safe. Everything would go back to normal. The door opened and the smell of alcohol washed into the house in a wave; the smell made Castiel wrinkle his nose but he left the office to greet Dean anyway. His sudden appearance clearly startled Dean as he dropped his keys and stared at him as if he had seen a ghost.

 

“Jesus Christ Cas!” Dean gasped, his hand fluttering to his chest.

 

Despite the smell, Dean did not seem drunk, which was promising. “I apologize,” he whispered. “I feel better now…”

 

Dean nodded and finally shut the door as he relaxed. “Sorry I’m so late.”

 

Castiel watched Dean go through his ritual of removing his boots and coat, hanging the leather jacket up next to Castiel’s coat as he always did. Once Dean was more settled, Castiel took two strides and held onto either side of his face to kiss him; Dean tasted like beer and fried food but Castiel didn’t mind. He searched his mouth for the words he wanted to hear Dean say, and all of the answers he could not give Dean in return. Dean was alive and well, and Castiel would never take advantage of this fact ever again.

 

“Wow, miss me or somethin’?” Dean teased with a smile.

 

“I got worried...I woke up...and the clocks-they’re all messed up-” Castiel glanced around as if to prove his point but there was no clock he could readily point at. “Something woke me up. I don’t know what...but...the bedroom door...it was open when I did wake up. Did you come back and open it after I fell asleep?”

 

Dean shook his head. “No.”

 

“But you closed it, right? I’m not crazy-”

 

“I closed it,” Dean replied gently. “Maybe you were sleepwalking? Wouldn’t surprise me with your crazy sleeping habits.”

 

Castiel frowned. He had never had a sleepwalking problem before. Something was wrong. “No, Dean I don’t sleepwalk-”

 

“Well, if I didn’t open the door, and you don’t think _you_ opened it then...what? The house is haunted?” Dean was making fun of him now; teasing his paranoia.

 

“Dean this isn’t funny-what if someone was in the house?” Castiel glanced back at the book on his laptop before turning concerned eyes back on Dean.

 

“And they didn’t take anything?” Dean snorted in derision. “Cas, you’re being paranoid again. Everything is fine. Relax baby. Maybe I did come back and open the door, who knows? It’s fine. Nothing is in the house. You’re safe. I promise.”

 

He had no choice but to nod.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Good morning baby.”

  


Castiel opened his eyes slowly, partly because of how tired he felt, and partly because the bedroom was ridiculously bright. He usually kept his bedroom dark but Dean must have pulled the heavy curtains back to allow the sunlight in. He managed to mumble Dean’s name in utter confusion before finally focusing on the freckles that dusted Dean’s cheeks; he always tried to count them and he always had to stop somewhere between twenty and thirty.

  


Dean smiled and pressed a warm kiss to his forehead. “Good morning,” he repeated.

  


Castiel finally began to sit up and the house felt quiet today but it was not the same eerie silence that had been giving off lately. The silence felt like a warm blanket placed right over his skin; a second layer to keep his constantly disruptive thoughts beneath the surface. The room was bright with the winter’s sun and Castiel could see a plate of food waiting for him on a tray at the foot of the bed. Dean had made him breakfast.

  


“You made me breakfast?” he asked, even though the answer was clearly right in front of him.

  


“Yeah...I’ve been kind of a jerk lately, so I figured I’d make up for it,” Dean replied with a small smile.

  


Castiel removed his eyes from the food at the foot of the bed and back up to look at Dean’s face, his eyes trailing a select path from the slope of Dean’s shoulder, up his neck, along his stubbled jaw, to his soft lips, along his nose, and finally up to the green eyes that Castiel enjoyed becoming lost in. The color of Dean’s eyes was the same green of a grassy field in the middle of a hot day in July; every time he gazed at Dean he imagined standing in that field. The clouds above his head were always white, fluffy things that made him think of angels and pillows, but in the distance the clouds were darkening and a colder wind would blow across his face and tousle his hair. He could smell the coming rain and feel the electricity dance along the hairs of his arms.

  


Dean’s eyes were that color.

  


“Oh,” he managed to breathe out as Dean set the tray of food on his lap. “Thank you.”

  


“You’re welcome.” Dean smiled again before turning to leave him alone with his food.

  


As usual, Castiel listened to the fading footsteps that Dean made when he stepped through the house. He always disrupted the quiet. The smell of breakfast made him realize that, even though he and Dean fought, almost as much as children, Dean still cared about him. Maybe Dean even loved him. Castiel turned both his eyes and thoughts back on the task at end; eating the breakfast Dean had cooked for him.

  


As he ate the food slowly, since there was more food on this plate than he was used to consuming, his mind returned to the bible that had been sitting on his laptop that early morning a week ago. He had put the bible on the top shelf of his desk nestled in with other books. He had forgotten to ask Dean about it, but since Dean had denied opening up the door to the bedroom, he would probably deny putting the bible in his study. Had Dean put the bible in his study as a practical joke? But who had written on the inside cover?

  


_The calm, cool face of the river asked me for a kiss. The calm, cool face of the river asked me for a kiss. The calm cool face of the river asked me for a kiss._

  


Saying the words in his head or writing them down were never the same as muttering the mantra out loud. Since Dean was no longer in the room, Castiel did not feel any qualms about saying the words aloud. The moment he opened his mouth to speak, the words died on his tongue, and he realized something was wrong. The house had gone quiet again.

  


The eerie quiet.

  


The tray of food clattered to the floor and the plate shattered, but Castiel flew over the glass shards and out of the bedroom door. He ran down the stairs, past his study, and down the main hallway to the kitchen and sitting room. Dean was not in the house. He called Dean’s name but no answer came; the silence was eating at his psyche, tearing down his walls, and trying to crawl its way under his skin. The quiet covered him with a viscous black goo that he could not shake free.

  


Dean.  
Where was Dean?

  


Castiel spun around to see if the Impala was still in the driveway, but he had not heard its familiar rumbling as Dean drove away. He peered out the front door and saw that the car was sitting in its usual spot. Dean had to be in the house somewhere. Once more, he called Dean’s name, and received no response. Castiel raised accusatory eyes to the ceiling; what had the house done with Dean? What had this silent place done? Had the quiet swallowed Dean whole and was now searching for him in the middle of the afternoon? Ready to swallow him into its thick and heavy arms?

  


Castiel closed his eyes and listened to the thrums of the house; it groaned and creaked the way it always did but they were wrong. The noises brought him no comfort and no solace. They left him feeling cold and empty; a hollowness that he wanted to fill with Dean’s voice, Dean’s poet hands, and Dean’s eager mouth.

  


One more time, Castiel called for Dean.

  


“Cas?”

  


He spun around and stared wide eyed at Dean who was standing behind him in the hallway, looking terribly confused. “Dean-where-where were you? It was so quiet…”

  
  


“I was upstairs Cas. Didn’t you hear me answering you?” Dean asked slowly, both of his hands raised as if he were afraid of Castiel in this feral and terrified state.

  


“No...no I didn’t...I’m sorry-what were you doing?” Suspicious, Castiel’s eyes squinted.

  


“I was going through the guest room. Remember when I said last night I was going to go through it? You said it’d be okay for me to do that since there was so much junk up there…” Dean stared at him still with wide eyes and raised hands. Dean was afraid of him.

  


His shoulders finally relaxed and he felt that eeriness dissipate. The house went back to being comforting, and everything was fine. Nothing was amiss. “I’m sorry Dean,” he said again.

  


“It’s okay.” Dean gave him another strange look, as if he was still unsure about Castiel’s mental state before turning to return to his task.

  


The house creaked and Castiel glanced around at the peeling wallpaper. The wooden walls beneath were like scars and wounds in the house’s shell. Maybe giving the house new paint and wallpaper would put the house to rest. If he healed the house, then perhaps the house would relent its torment. He could walk free of its walls and be happier. Perhaps, Dean would stop staring at him as if he had lost his mind.  

  
  
  
  


That was how he and Dean had ended up picking the main hallway to fix first. They had lain some tarps down on the floors and the process of peeling away the old wallpaper had become the focus. Castiel peeled the wallpaper off like he would peel dead skin from a sunburn from his arms. Some of it stuck and did not want to free itself so easily. Dean would have to scrape those bits free, while Castiel continued to peel the layers away. The house groaned and sighed as they went about their task, but Dean had some music playing from a stereo he had bought on sale. The songs sometimes covered up the protests the house gave him, but Castiel ignored the ones the music did not.

  


Once the hallway was stripped bare, Castiel eagerly dipped his roller into the warm cream that Dean had chosen from the hardware store. He had not gone with Dean when the paint had been picked out; he had only given Dean the instruction that he wanted a natural color. Nothing too vibrant, just something soft and peaceful. The house deserved some peace after all. They rolled the walls with several layers of paint, all the while Dean sang along with the music, his voice echoing down the hallway. Castiel liked Dean’s singing voice.

  


“It looks better already,” Dean commented triumphantly when they finished and stepped back to admire their work. He felt Dean’s arm slide around his waist, and Castiel smiled at the familiarity of that simple gesture.

  


“I agree,” he said loud enough for the entire house to hear him. Or at least, that was what he thought.

  


“You wanna paint the other walls this color? I can get more paint,” Dean said, clearly eager to paint the entirety of the house.

  


Castiel glanced up and down the hall and took a deep breath; the smell of fresh paint wafted into his nose and settled his fears. The wounds were covered up and the house had a fresh bandage for its pain. The eerie silence was no longer creeping along the recesses of his mind. Again, he felt some peace. “No,” he whispered. “This is perfect.”

  
  
  


Except, it wasn’t perfect for long.

  


Dean, after spending an evening with his brother Sam, came home stinking of alcohol and smoke. They must have gone to a bar, and Dean had returned to him drunk. He had been sitting up and trying to write again. The creative ebb had returned to his fingers and Castiel had allowed the sentences to flow out of him like sweetened milk.

  
The front door had unlocked and Dean had come in with the sudden stench of bar flowing around him. A poisoned air; it made Castiel’s nose wrinkle and throat close. The moment Dean came through the door, the words quit flowing, and began to jar and clench from his fingers instead. The mountain was on the horizon again.

  


“ _Casss_ ,” Dean drawled as he stumbled against the study’s doorjamb. “Casss.”

  


“ _Dean_ ,” he replied evenly, slowly turning around to look at his drunk lover from his desk chair.

  


“What are you _doin'_?” Dean asked.

  


“I’m writing-”

  


“ _Oh_. You mean you’re _pretending_ to write, ‘cause you can’t write for shit, you know that? God, you’re awful Cas. How long have you been at this now? Ten years? Something? And when are you gonna realize you _suck_ and give it up?” Dean stared at him so seriously that for a moment, Castiel simply forgot that Dean was drunk.

  


“You don’t mean that-” he whispered.

  


“Yeah I do. You’re a _failure_ Cas.” Dean shook his head. “Failure.”

  


The breath left his lungs. He forgot how to take in another and sat in a breathless silence. When Dean walked away, leaving him blindsided and hurt, Castiel finally took another breath; it clawed its way through his lungs and back out of his body in a painful rush. It was true, he had been writing for a long time, and he had had no real success with his manuscripts, but that had never deterred him before. Writing was hard; getting published was even harder. And Dean didn’t understand; he didn’t _know_ what Castiel went through everyday, trying to force the creativity back into his body.

  


Something was blurring his vision; he could hardly make out anything in the room. When the tears fell down his cheeks, he reached up to touch the wetness of them and could only stare at the stain they left on his fingers. He hardly ever cried. A surge of anger filled his chest then, and Castiel stood to go after Dean, storming down the newly painted hallway to the kitchen where Dean was looking in the fridge. He could hear the clanking of beer bottles as Dean’s clumsy fingers grasped onto another.

  


When Dean turned around, Castiel was ready, and he coldly knocked the beer from his hand. Dean stared in shock, as if he could not believe that Castiel would knock a perfectly good beer to the ground and waste it.

  


“Damn it Cas!” Dean snapped, glaring full force. “Why you gotta be a dick, huh?!”

  


The tears were coming and he could not stop them now; they were the army on Normandy beach. They were a tsunami’s tidal wave. They were everything unspoken and unsaid between them. “Why would say that I’m a _failure_ Dean?”

  


“ 'Cause you are,” Dean replied coldly. Annoyed, Dean knocked into his shoulder as he passed him to go back into the hallway. Castiel followed.

  


“Dean _talk_ to me! You’re drunk, you don’t mean-” Castiel gasped when Dean turned and punched the painted wall so hard he sent a splinter running through it.

  


“I said I did,” Dean growled, his tone low and dangerous. “Now shut up and let me go to bed.”

  


He didn’t say another word; he just watched Dean continued to the banister and make his way up the stairs. His footsteps creaking and the house groaned in protest. Castiel turned his eyes back on the new wound that Dean had given the wall they had just repaired not a week before. The crack was an ugly scar in the plaster, and the house knew. The house _knew_ it was damaged. The house knew.

  


He ran his fingers over the wound and wished he could have pulled the seams shut with his fingers. The eerie silence would creep out of the wound like a festering disease, ready to permeate every surface. The tears kept coming. They were on a mission and he had no power to stop them. The wall felt warm to his skin Castiel realized as he pressed his forehead against the plaster. Or maybe that was just from his own body heat and crying. He could have sworn he felt the walls thrumming. Like a heartbeat.

  


 


	5. Chapter 5

"Baby?”

  


The air was colder today and there was a fresh, thin layer of snow on the ground outside; sparse in patches due to the amount of trees on the property but Castiel liked the look of the white against the dead leaves. There was life in the whiteness. A promise for a new beginning at the end of the year.

  


“...Baby?”

  


The lock on the window screeched quietly as he tried to swivel it open. He wanted to feel the crisp air on his skin, to smell the cold, and to taste the new life in the air. He wanted to feel the warmth of the sun as it shone down above his head outside.

  


“Cas?”

  


Finally, after a few moments of tugging, the window lock released and Castiel was able to lift it open. The gust of cold air slammed into his body, cutting through his thin layers, but the burst woke him up. The cold intermixed with the quiet and made him feel less restless. He could lay on the couch and sleep if he wanted. He could-

  


“Castiel!”

  


Clearly, Dean was not going to leave him alone.

  


He finally turned to look back at Dean, taking in the visage of the man he had grown to love; Dean looked tired, as if he had not slept all night. That made two of them. His face was covered in an extra layer of facial hair, making him scruffier than usual; if he had been in a better mood, he would have found the scruff sexy and would have loved to run his hands all over it. Followed shortly by his thighs. But he was not in a good mood, not after Dean’s display last night.

  


Dean took a breath and then a step towards him, but there was still a vast distance between them. Castiel remained turned around on the couch, while Dean stood in the space between the kitchen and the start of the living room, near the doorway. He looked lost, as if he were unsure of what to say.

  


“What, Dean?” he finally prompted, as Dean continued to remain mute.

  


“I’m-I’m _sorry_ Cas...for last night. Oh God, I’m so sorry...I’m _so_ sorry. I didn’t mean that stuff. You’re not a failure Cas. You write beautiful words and one day someone is gonna see that….it’s hard..I know it’s hard-” Dean faltered and stopped, his tongue seeming to have become twisted.

  


Castiel moved his eyes from Dean and back to the outside world. He hardly ever went outside; in fact he couldn’t even remember the last time he had _been_ outside. Now that the window was open, he could hear the sounds of a running creek; he had forgotten about the creek hidden by the trees. “You were rather adamant that you meant them….the words you said.”

  


“I know, God I _know_. Cas-please-please-baby I would never say those things and mean them. I swear to Christ!” Dean closed the distance between them then; he placed a hand on Castiel’s lower back. There was desperation in his touch; with all of their fighting lately, they had hardly had any intimate contact with each other. Dean was too tired at night and Castiel was too exhausted during the day. Nothing ever worked out between them.

  


He had expected Dean’s touch to feel cold and unwelcoming, but on the contrary, Dean’s hands felt familiar and warm. They still made his skin feel as if it were on fire. “Dean-”

  


“Cas, please forgive me? I was drunk-I-I had no idea what I was saying. God, I’m _so_ sorry Cas.”

  


“Okay Dean,” he finally snapped. “I forgive you.” If nothing else, he would no longer have to hear Dean beg him anymore.

  


Dean let loose a sigh of relief and then began to press eager kisses to the back of his neck. Once again, Dean began to write poetry with his hands; he caressed Castiel’s hips before sliding his calloused fingers to the dip between his hip and pelvis, trailing along the dark nest above his cock. Before his ministrations could cause too hot of a burn, Dean slid his hands up to Castiel’s stomach and he pressed the flat of his palm against that expanse. Castiel breathed in deeply and he felt Dean’s hands gently press back. He had missed Dean’s hands.

  


“Do you wanna?” Dean whispered in his ear, suddenly pressing flush against his back.

  


Castiel could feel the heat of Dean’s desire pressed against his lower back and backside. He licked his lips, which were dry and cracked from misuse. Two more strategically pressed kisses to his neck, and Castiel was nodding his agreement.

  
  
  
  


They made love four times that day. The last time ended with them both in bed, Dean’s arm flung over his chest as he slept. Castiel listened to Dean’s breathing; in, out, in out. Despite the physical workout he had been put through throughout the day, he felt no exhaustion. Instead, the quiet began to consume him. The restlessness set in soon after, and Castiel finally decided to carefully wriggle out from under Dean and go downstairs. Using the slowest of movements, he finally came free and slid from the bedroom to go down the creaking stairs.

  


For once the creaking made him flinch; he did not want to wake Dean.

  


When he finally rounded the corner, Castiel flipped the light for the hallway on, his eyes going immediately to the new crack in the wall. The house shifted and Castiel frowned; there was something on the wall. Ignoring the desire to write, he made his way silently down the hallway to where the crack marred the paint. Next to it, written in what appeared to be pencil, and in neat handwriting was a Bible passage.

  


_And all that dwell upon the earth shall worship him, whose names are not written in the book of life of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world._

  


Castiel startled. Wetting his thumb with his tongue, he quickly wiped the verse away, scrubbing at the paint until the marks smeared and were unwritten. As far as he knew, Dean was not a religious man, and he probably did not know of any Bible verses. This one was from the Book of Revelations. Shaking his head, Castiel walked back down the hallway and into his study where his laptop awaited him to write. The clock he had recently placed above his desk read 2:45 in the morning. The passage still in mind, Castiel slowly sank down into his desk chair, his fingers poised to wake his computer up to continue writing.

  


There was another passage written next to his desk.

  


_Then I saw another beast rising out of the earth. It had two horns like a lamb and it spoke like a dragon._

  


Again from Revelations.

  


Who was writing these passages on the walls? The handwriting was not his, nor was it Dean’s. A wave of fear passed into his chest, causing his heart to race and his palms to sweat. He wiped the passage away. The hand seemed familiar however but he couldn’t be certain as to where it was from. Castiel shook his head; he needed to write.

  


3:01

  


Poised to continue once again, Castiel startled when the house groaned again. It was always protesting his efforts. “I have to write sometime,” he hissed to the silence. “Surely, you understand.”

  


Once again, the house groaned and the silence swept over him like a cold chill. Somewhere, someone was laughing, he was sure. He could hear the laughter coming from the hallway. Castiel slowly spun around in his chair, afraid to look for the cause of the disturbance. Maybe, the house was haunted. When he heard another noise, this one above his head, Castiel fled the chair and ran back up the stairs and into the bedroom to shake Dean awake.

  


Dean startled and mumbled incomprehensible sentences. “Cas?”

  


“Dean, the house-I heard-”

  


“What? What are you talking about? Slow down.” Dean sat up and rubbed his face, clearly tired and not wanting to be awake at this house. He was not the insomniac that Castiel happened to be.

  


“The house-I heard laughing-I think...Dean I’m sure the house is haunted-...there were Bible passages on the walls Dean. From Revelations. I recognize them-” Castiel stared at Dean wide eyed and afraid. The look he received was one of clear annoyance.

  


“Cas, it’s past three in the morning. You probably just need to _sleep_ again, okay? You’re going to hear stuff when you’re up all night and day all the time. You’re losing it, babe. Go back to bed.” Dean began to lay back down but Castiel grabbed onto his arm, desperate with fear.

  


“Dean, I swear it-I _heard_ it..and someone wrote stuff in the hallway, and by my desk-it was all there. It was all there Dean!”

  


Dean sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “Cas, you’re starting to really freak me out, you know that? You’re losing your mind, you really need to get out of this fucking prison cell you call a house, get some sleep, and take a break from your life. I can’t take it anymore, baby. The house makes noises, you’re exhausted, you’re gonna be hearing shit that doesn’t exist.”

  


“Are you saying I’m crazy?” Castiel whispered.

  


“I think you’re suffering from lack of sleep which is making you a little loopy, yeah.”

  


Castiel stared down at Dean with more hurt. He wasn’t crazy. Someone had written on the walls. “Dean, I’m not crazy.”

  


“Cas, crazy people say they’re not crazy. When you have to say it...well…” Dean shrugged and rolled over, signaling that the conversation was now over and he was going back to sleep.

  


He stared at Dean’s back. The desire to shake Dean over and over was strong, but eventually he crawled back into bed and allowed Dean to wrap his arm around his waist and press a kiss to the back of his neck. After Dean fell asleep, Castiel tried to focus on Dean’s breathing but there was another sound that was keeping him awake; a rustling and scratching. The sound was coming from inside the walls.

  


Silently, Castiel begged the elusive sandman to arrive and put him out for the night, but he did not feel his eyes begin to close until the sun tried to peer through the curtains and the rustling went away. He didn’t fall asleep until Dean began to rise and go about his day. He heard Dean say something about work but then he was gone and Castiel was alone in the house. Sleep was finally not far behind.

  
  
  


“Cas, for the love of God, the house _isn’t_ haunted! It’s not haunted, I don’t know it is you think you’re hearing, but you’re not hearing it. You need to _rest_ Cas. Your brain is playing tricks on you because you don’t sleep at night.”

  


Castiel glanced over at Dean where he was lounging on the couch, a beer in hand and the TV on, as it  was working today. He had told Dean about the passages again, as he had found even more. One in the bathroom, two in the attic, and three in the kitchen. They just kept appearing, as if someone was conjuring them there at will. Dean claimed to have never seen them, but Castiel had pencil marks on his hands to show that he had wiped them away. None of them made sense; some were from Revelations, some were from Genesis, some were from the book of Luke.

  


They were all random and seemingly empty.

  


The silence of the house balanced on the edge of a knife, somewhere between comforting and eerie. All of this added up left Castiel on edge; he sat up at night and slept during the day. The fighting between him and Dean had grown so exponentially they hardly ever passed a single day without fighting at least four or five times. Despite Dean’s denials, Castiel was noticing his behavior was proving to be more and more erratic; went out more often, came home later and later. There were times when he didn’t come home at all. He stayed out in the garage mostly, working on his car or another handy project, just to stay away from the house.

If Dean was so innocent as he claimed to be, then Castiel could not understand why he acted so guilty. He held his tongue on commenting about the idea that the house could possible have a dark spirit haunting its halls; instead he stood up and went to grab his coat. He wanted to know what Dean was working on in the garage since he never spoke of it, but he went out there often enough. As he pulled his coat on, Castiel noted another passage hiding behind where his coat had been hanging. This one, he did not recognize as a verse from any gospel.

  


_You will believe you are mad, you will believe you’ve gone insane._

  


He gulped and quickly fled the house to go out to the garage. Letting himself in through the side door, Castiel rubbed his hands together and blew hot air on his fingers. The silence was out here too; it stretched its long tendriled fingers to try and grasp onto him. He could feel the silence calling his name; he could feel the house beckoning him to return. Shaking himself all over, Castiel pulled open the door to the Impala and sat inside, looking around for anything that could incriminate Dean. For anything that could _prove_ that Dean was doing this to him.

  


He was convinced that Dean and the house were conspiring to drive him insane. He had never felt this crazy or unsure before Dean; this was being done to him, and he wasn’t sure how or why but he would figure it out on his own. There was nothing in the car that he could see, and he almost gave up, before a slip of white caught his attention. There were slips of paper hiding beneath one of Dean’s jackets on the passenger’s seat; lifting up the coat carefully, Castiel held the slip of paper in his hand. There were notes written on it neatly in a bulleted list.

  


  * _He’s crazy_
  * _Don’t listen to a word he says because he’s crazy_
  * _Write him his favorite poem_
  * _Write his favorite passages_
  * _The house isn’t haunted, remind him_
  * _Get out. Get out. Get out._



  


Castiel gasped.  This was it; Dean was doing this to him. Dean was the secret messenger.

  


Dean was the one trying to drive him insane.

  
  
  


“Dean what is this?” The paper in his hands shook as he held it out to Dean.

  


“What’s what?” Dean asked before glancing up from the TV.

  


“This,” he whispered. He held out the paper more insistently before Dean finally leaned forward to take it from him. “What is that?”

  


Dean scanned the paper and shrugged. “Hell if I know,” he replied before handing the paper back. “I didn’t write it.”

  


“I found it in your car.” His hands shook and he crumpled the list in his hand. “It’s _you_. You’re doing this to me. You’re trying to make me think I’m insane! I am _not_ insane!”

  


“Cas, I never said you were insane….that’s not even my handwriting Cas!” Dean stood up and glared at him. “I didn’t write that crap. Cas you are _completely_ unstable. I don’t know why I’m still here. I’m done. We’re through-”

  


He had not expected Dean to call it quits and the list was forgotten as he stammered and Dean began to walk towards the door. “Dean wait-”

  


“I’m _done_ Castiel. I can’t take this crap anymore. You’re muttering poetry that creeps me out, you wake me up at the worst times constantly, you keep telling me the house is haunted, and it’s _not_ haunted Cas. It’s old. You’re insistent that there are just random Bible verses being written on the walls. You think there’s something _in_ the walls, scratching and clawing at night….and now this? Cas, I can’t take it anymore, I just can’t.” Dean shook his head and continued down the hallway to pull his leather coat on.

  


Castiel stared and quickly rushed to grab onto Dean’s arm. He had never had a significant other want to live with him before. Dean was special and he loved Dean. He _loved_ Dean. His love for Dean was why this realization hurt so much. “Dean, don’t go-please don’t go-don’t go-”

  


“Cas, I’m done. I just can’t-”

  


“Dean no. No, no, no, no...you have to stay. I love you Dean. I love you-”

  


“I said no Cas,” Dean whispered. “I said no.”

  


“ _Dean_ -”

  


Dean was leaving; he was going out the front door.

  


He couldn’t let Dean go.

  


Castiel rushed after him through the snow and out to the garage, grabbing onto his coat and making him turn around. “Dean, you can’t go! You’re doing this to me, I won’t let you get away with it-you can’t go-”

  


“Cas, let _go_ of me!” Dean grasped onto Castiel’s wrists and held them tightly in his hands. “I said let go Cas-let go-”

  


“You’re trying to make me think I’m crazy. I’m _not_ crazy!” He screamed at Dean and shoved him hard, until Dean fell back against his workshop table and slipped to the floor. Before Dean could get up again, Castiel climbed on top of him. “You can’t go-”

  


“Cas, get offa me!” Dean snapped as he struggled.

  


Castiel stared down at Dean and he struggled with his emotions; he loved Dean but Dean was trying to make him believe he was insane. He was not insane. The hands that had written poetry and verses along his ribcage and spine pressed hard against his chest but Castiel pressed back into him. As he fought Dean and they both struggled on the concrete floor, for a moment, Castiel felt as if he had stepped outside of his body; he could see them both clear as day on the ground, and he watched as his own fingers wrapped around Dean’s neck and squeezed.

  


He squeezed and squeezed.

  


Then, he watched as he slammed Dean’s head hard into the ground.

  


There was blood; it was much brighter than he could have ever imagined. Blood was not meant to be that bright; it should have been darker. Sludgier. Like the black goo of the silence.

  


He returned to himself long enough to feel a blackness creeping in at the edges of his own vision. He saw Dean lying on the floor, his eyes closed, blood on the concrete, and then nothing.

  
  
  


Someone was drowning. The river was rushing over their head and keeping them under. The water was cold; it was turning their lips blue. They were holding out their hand and Castiel reached. He reached to hold on but the river current was too strong. They were being swept away; the white foam hiding their face but Castiel saw a flash of green. It was Dean. Dean was drowning.

  
  
  


“Cas, wake up. Cas.”

  


He didn’t want to wake up; he was dreaming of rivers. _The calm cool face of the river asked me for a kiss_.

  


“Castiel!”

  


The world was moving. Castiel opened his eyes and saw the color of whiskey being lit by sunlight. Someone sat him up and as he roved his eyes over the garage, Castiel felt his blood run cold. Where was Dean? He turned his gaze to the place where Dean had been lying but there was no one there now. No blood. Nothing.

  


“Where is Dean?” he asked before turning his gaze back on the man with the whiskey colored eyes. It was Gabriel, his older brother.

  


“Dean?” Gabriel said, his head cocking to one side.

  


“Not this again,” came another voice, this one deeper and darker; it belonged to his oldest brother, Michael. Why were his brothers here? Where was Dean?

  


“Where is Dean?” he repeated. “I didn’t mean to hurt him-I swear-I didn’t mean to-” They couldn’t believe that he had almost killed Dean; he hadn’t meant to hurt him. He could be lost in the woods somewhere; hurt, bleeding, dying. They had to find him. “We have to find Dean-”

  


Michael sighed heavily and Gabriel gently turned his chin so they could look at each other. When Gabriel spoke again, his voice was calm and gentle. “Cas, there is no Dean. He isn’t real.”

  


 


	6. Chapter 6

The house was emptier than usual and the silence was settling over him like an unwelcome shock blanket. His brothers had taken him inside and sat him down on the couch where he and Dean had spent afternoons together. Exchanging kisses and words. They had made love on this couch. Gabriel was coming back to him with a cup of tea in one hand and the other held two colorful pills. Michael was leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed, looking unhappy, but Michael hardly ever looked happy.

  


“Cas, you haven’t been taking your medication,” Gabriel chided gently as he came to sit beside him. “You have to take these or you'll make yourself sick.”

  


Castiel stared at the pills in Gabriel’s palm; he didn’t recognize them at all. “What are those?” he whispered.

  


“Your medicine Cas,” Gabriel repeated. “You have to take it.”

  


“Just shove it down his throat already-” Michael growled but Gabriel shot him a dark look.

  


“Cas, you have to remember to take these.” Gabriel pressed the medication into his palm and handed him the tea. “Go on.”

  


He frowned and the house groaned its protest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not _on_ medication-we-we have to find Dean. He’s hurt-”

  


“Oh for the love of God,” Michael grumbled. “We tried it your way Gabe, now it’s my turn.” Michael stormed over and grabbed his shoulders firmly, glaring down at him. “Cas, Dean _isn’t_ a real person. You made him up when you were three for Christ’s sake! I thought you were _over_ the Dean thing, Cas-”

  


“It’s not his fault,” Gabriel hissed.

  


Michael rolled his eyes. “I see you’re back to writing that poem over and over again. It’s all over the damn place. You have to let Benny go Cas-”

  


“Benny?” Castiel blinked and then the river came back to his mind; the dream he had been having of the drowning man. _Benny_.

  
  
  


_“You sure you like it?” Benny said with his arm wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders. “The house, that is. I know you like the woods.”_

  


_Castiel smiled brightly. “I love it Benny. It’s perfect, we can start a family here. It’s completely and utterly perfect.” He grabbed Benny’s hand and pulled him up the porch to go inside. The interior was even more beautiful than the exterior; the walls were light and creamy, and the study had a beautiful window._

  


_“I’m glad you like it Sug.” Benny grabbed onto his arm and spun him around so they could be chest to chest. Before Castiel could say anything else, Benny swallowed his comments with a kiss. “You do look mighty cute in here.”_

  


_Castiel smiled up at Benny. “I love you Benny.”_

  


_“I love you too Cas.”_

  
  
  


“Michael don’t-” Gabriel whispered.

  


Castiel stared at the wall behind Michael as the memories returned to him. Benny Lafitte had been his lover ten years ago. They had bought this house together; they had planned to make a family here. They had both wanted children; a boy and a girl. Benny had given him everything and then one night, he had taken it all away too.

  
  
  


_The house was quiet; the silence felt unnerving. Usually, the quiet was a comfort, but not tonight. Benny should have been to bed an hour ago. Why was he still outside working at this hour? Castiel sighed. He would have to drag Benny in by his shirt most likely. Grabbing a pair of shoes, Castiel slid them on his feet and walked downstairs and out the back door. The darkness loomed all around him as he started to walk back towards the shed that still had the light on._

  


_The little bit of light made his skin crawl; it marred the darkness in an obstructive and unnatural way. The door was partially open and Castiel peered inside but it was empty. Benny was not here._

  


_A frown wrinkled his brows and narrowed his eyes and that was when Castiel saw the book sitting on Benny’s workbench. The door squeaked as he pushed it the rest of the way open to cross over to the table._

  


_The Holy Bible._

  


_It was Benny’s father’s; he recognized it. Flipping the cover open Castiel stared at the words written across the page._

  


The cool, calm face of the river asked me for a kiss.

  


_His heart slammed in his chest._

  
  
  


“Benny killed himself,” he whispered, which ended his brothers’ bickering. “I remember.”

  


Gabriel flinched. “Yeah Cas, he did.”

  


Castiel continued to stare at the wall as he remembered walking down to the creek behind the house in the dark; he had stumbled over roots, branches, bushes, and rocks the entire way, the bible clutched to his chest. He had found Benny in the cold water dead. He had jumped in and drowned. The funeral had been a week later. Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat as the memories came flooding back to him in a rush of agony. The unsettling silence returned.

 

“Cas, we’re gonna take you outta here, it’s time you leave this place,” Gabriel said firmly. “It’s not good for you. Okay? It’s time to go see a doctor again. You’re not well.”

  


“Why did you come here?” he whispered, finally turning his eyes on his brother. “Why?”

  


“We’ve been trying to call you, check up on you...you haven’t been answering your phone,” Gabriel supplied. “We got worried and finally decided to drive up here.”

  


“Dean…?”

  


“Isn’t real,” Michael replied. “He was your imaginary friend as a kid Cas. You made him up...and then Mom and Dad got worried when you didn’t outgrow him. The doctors put you on medication...you met Benny in college...Dean went away….and….I guess after Benny’s death…” His brother shrugged helplessly.

  


Castiel took a deep breath and released it; Dean wasn’t real. It sounded absurd at first. The notion that the lover he had had for almost a year as an imaginary person seemed too unreal to be a fact. But, in the back of his mind, he knew. He knew that Dean wasn’t real, that he had made Dean up as a child and as he grew, Dean had too. Dean had become the light in his darkness; Dean had replaced Benny so he could fight the empty silence. Dean had not caused him to go insane, nor had the house; he was already insane without their help. After Benny had died, he had been on a downward spiral for ten years. Dean had returned at the peak of his mental break. 

 

Tears slid down his face pathetically. He had loved Dean the same as he had loved Benny. 

 

  
He needed Dean to be real. He didn't want to be crazy. He didn't want Dean to be some made up person who was not a tangible being he could grasp. "I made love to Dean," he whispered brokenly. "I kiss Dean, he touched me- he wrote  _poetry_ on my body...you're telling me none of that happened. None of that was real?"

 

"I'm sorry Cas," Gabriel said as he squeezed his shoulder. "Take your medicine."

 

Castiel dropped his eyes back to the pills in his hand before shakily swallowing them down.

 

"It's time to go Cas, okay? We'll get your things." Gabriel pressed a kiss to his temple. As if that made everything alright.

 

He nodded.  

  


Michael and Gabriel had him packed and ready to leave in under an hour; they had promised to look after the house, since they knew Castiel didn’t want to sell it. As he stepped over the threshold and towards Michael’s car, Castiel could feel the silence following him. The tendrils reached out to grasp at him, begging him to return. He glanced back at the house and smiled slightly. “Good bye,” he whispered.

  
The house groaned in protest.

 


End file.
